


No, this isn't Dr. Who

by dickpuncher420



Category: Leviathan - Scott Westerfeld
Genre: Dalek Week 2014, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 06:38:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2057700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dickpuncher420/pseuds/dickpuncher420
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My written entries for Dalek Week 2014, hosted on DeviantArt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1 - Childhood

**Author's Note:**

> So here are my written entries for Dalek Week 2014. You can find my drawings on DeviantArt (camelfaging.deviantart.com/gallery/). Please enjoy my crappy writing and review!
> 
> Disclaimer: The Leviathan trilogy is the rightful property of our lord and saviour, Scott Westerfeld.

"Deryn Sharp, stop staring out the window and  _focus!"_

Deryn jumped and glanced guiltily at her mother before returning her attention to the piece of fabric in her hands and hastily stabbing the needle through it. She cringed inwardly at her sloppy handiwork and then, quickly flicking her eyes to her mother's disapproving figure, dared to venture, "But Ma, I don't see why I have to stay inside and  _embroider_  while Jas gets to—"

"Enough, Deryn!"

Deryn clapped her mouth shut and glared down at the needle grasped in her fingers, angry tears pricking at her eyes. There was a pause, and then:

"Straighten your back, Deryn. You're slouching."

.

"Look at me, Aleksandar!"

Alek broke away from his distracted observation of the ceiling and turned his gaze towards his fencing master, who was leveling him with—well, not exactly a scowl, but perhaps a look of cool disapproval. He tried not to shrink under his stare and focused instead on maintaining his form. He managed it all of ten seconds, arm trembling, before he asked carefully, "But Count, why must I learn fencing? It's hardly a useful—"

"Silence!"

His voice died in his throat and he blinked back the tears that had formed. A few seconds passed, Alek struggling to keep his arm aloft, before:

"Raise your tip, Aleksandar."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps a few scenes from Alek and Deryn's respective childhoods?
> 
> I'd say they're maybe around 10 years old here.


	2. Day 2 - Genderbend

There's something… _off_  about the new boy, but he can't quite put his finger on it. He's got all these odd mannerisms, always so sodding  _polite_  and  _uptight_. But it's not just that—the lad speaks Clanker, for crying out loud! He's practically got a nanny who follows him around and barks at him in that rough language of theirs, mustache bristling. And he doesn't understand why he would lie about where he came from—even though all that blether about living in a nearby village had been barking pathetic, to say the least.

But it goes beyond that, beyond the obvious. He has little tics and habits that, while subtle, are amplified by Dylan's suspicions about the boy.

The way his voice will sometimes squeak higher when he's nervous, or how he's constantly clutching at the fabric of his trousers. How he's always touching his ears, for no apparent reason. His face colouring whenever he meets anyone's eyes. His soft, quiet voice that rarely lifts above a mumble.

He's hiding something, this Alek, and Dylan is intent on finding out what.

.

.

.

When Alek confesses that he's the son of an Austro-Hungarian nobleman— _that's a mouthful_ , Dylan jokes—he is satisfied, because it explains Alek's posh attitude and also his babysitter, Count sneaky-beak Volger, who's always nosing around where he shouldn't be. (Because  _of course_  he has someone to constantly watch over him and make sure that his little noble bum doesn't get hurt.)

Dylan just assumes that the odd way Alek acts around him is normal for Clanker nobility.

.

.

.

When they're on egg duty together for that insufferable boffin, Dylan only waits a couple minutes before unbuttoning his shirt most of the way to try to alleviate the heat. He doesn't comment on how Alek only undoes the top button of his shirt before settling back against the crates. He supposes it's too  _indecent_  for nobility like Alek to undress in the presence of commoners like him, and just shrugs before leaning back next to Alek and closing his eyes to wait out the next few hours.

And so he doesn't notice the blush flaring across Alek's face like wildfire.

.

.

.

Dylan is surprised when Alek tells him he doesn't know how to throw a knife. He knows that, growing up in a barking palace or whatever, he probably didn't have that many opportunities to learn, but  _still._  What kind of decent midshipman can't throw a knife? (And Dylan supposes that Alek is an honorary midshipman, even if he is a runaway Clanker and technically a prisoner.)

And so Dylan takes it upon himself to teach Alek the proper way to throw a rigging knife. He demonstrates a couple times, Alek wincing every time the blade  _thunks_  into the wood, before handing him the knife and instructing him on how to hold it and stand, going through the motions before he actually lets him try.

Alek stands, poised to throw, and Dylan paces around him, eyeing him skeptically.  _Raise your hand a wee bit, aye, like that, and stay on your toes..._  Standing behind him, Dylan grabs his friend's arm and lifts it higher, to eye level, before reaching for his torso, to shift his weight forward a bit—

The moment Dylan's fingers brush his sides, Alek jumps and  _squeaks_ , and then spins around to face Dylan, his cheeks brightening.  _I just remembered, I have to, erm, with Volger, he…wanted me to see him, and, uh, I forgot—_ and the rest is in hurried German. Alek's voice is pitched unnaturally high, and he looks everywhere but at Dylan. He pushes the knife towards Dylan, hands fumbling, before he squeezes out a rushed  _Sorry!_  and flees the room.

Dylan is left standing there, staring at the door, knife in his hands, utterly puzzled at his friend's erratic behavior.

.

.

.

Lilit seems to really bother Alek. Dylan can't help but notice how coldly he treats her: he's always curt whenever they speak, he's rarely in the same room as her, he rarely acknowledges her presence, and is just generally a bum-rag. He doesn't understand what Alek has against her—he personally finds her to be pretty smart and resourceful, unlike some of the other girls he's met back home. He even musters up a bit of respect for her, for planning this whole revolution alongside her father.

But Alek seems dead-set on hating her and being extra moody, constantly sulking except for when he's working on some daft Clanker contraption. Each time Dylan tries to approach him about it, Alek just closes off and makes up excuses to leave, never looking him in the eye. He decides to leave him be. But he makes sure to send Bovril his way as often as he can, to try to cheer him up—he knows Alek has a soft spot for the beastie.

.

.

.

After Lilit flies off on her glider, leaving them both absolutely gobsmacked, standing in the wreckage of the walkers—especially Dylan, who is still reeling from her unexpected kiss—the taller boy turns to Alek, who is glaring off in the direction Lilit went. He nudges his arm and jokes,  _Jealous?_

Alek turns his scowl on him, cheeks colouring, before stomping off wordlessly in the direction of the injured mechanic.

Dylan laughs before glancing at the unmistakable shape of the  _Leviathan_  in the sky, and runs off to join him.

.

.

.

The headline jumps out at him from the newspaper he's meant to deliver to Volger with his breakfast:

**DAUGHTER OF THE ASSASSINATED ARCHDUKE FRANZ FERDINAND STILL MISSING**

Dylan makes a small noise in the back of his throat, because he recognizes the name. It seems interesting, and he wants to show it to Alek, because maybe he knows about this girl, since he's a barking noble and all that blether, and Dylan doesn't know how much the barking Count shares with him anyways. He peels off the first page of the newspaper and tucks it into his jacket, before knocking briskly on said Count's door with a shout of,  _Oi! Breakfast!_

The door opens and the two exchange a nod and few forced pleasantries, and then Dylan hands him the tray, salutes mockingly and walks off. He makes sure to drop off the paper at his cabin before leaving to complete his duties.

.

.

.

That night, the newspaper flutters from fingers limp with shock and settles silently on the floor of his cabin. The door is flung open and the sound of rushed footsteps echo down the corridor.

.

.

.

Dylan raps softly on the door to Alek's cabin.  _Alek, it's me._  At the sound of,  _Come in,_  he pushes open the door to find his friend lying on the bed, Bovril sitting upright on Alek's chest. The beastie lets out an excited,  _Mr. Sharp!_  and stretches out its arms for Dylan to pick it up. He indulges it and settles the fab on his shoulder before reaching behind him to close the door, making sure to lock it.

_I need to talk to you._

Alek sits up, alert, smiling, unknowing.  _Of course._

_I know who you are._

Dylan watches as all the colour drains from his friend's face.

.

.

.

_Why didn't you tell me?_

_I—I didn't…_

_Don't you trust me?_

_I do, it's—_

_Were you afraid I would tell someone? Because—because you're my best friend, and I would_ _ **never**_ —

_No, no, but—_

_Then why not? Why wouldn't you tell me? I thought—I thought I was your friend. Doesn't that count for something? For_ _**anything** _ _?_

_Yes, it does, I pro—_

_Barking_   _ **spiders**_ _, Alek! I told you everything, about my da, about my ma, about_   _ **me**_ _, and you couldn't even tell me_   _ **this**_ _? That you're a barking—_

.

.

.

He's cut off by a sudden warmth against his lips, and it's soft, and it's sloppy, and it's over just as quickly as it began, and Alek is pulling away, and she's crying, and Dylan thinks that maybe he is too, and—

 _That's why! That's why I couldn't tell you, you dummkopf!_  And then she turns away, wiping her eyes, curled in on herself, and says quietly,  _Scheiße._

Dylan stands there for a second, frozen, and then murmurs, _Blisters, Alek, I—I'm sorry._  He moves closer and tentatively wraps his arms around her frame, and she collapses against him, clutching at his shirt, wracked with big, ugly sobs.

And he understands that her tears aren't just for him, but also for her murdered parents, and that her grief, which she has been bottling up for months, is finally overflowing and spilling out. And all he can do is hold her, because he knows how much it hurts to lose a parent, and wait as she lets it all out, her tears staining his collar.

From the bed comes a small voice,  _No more secrets._  And Dylan sighs and rests his cheek against his friend's hair, tightening his hold on her.

No more secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A look at what it would have been like had Alek and Deryn's genders been reversed. I decided to keep everyone else's genders the same because it would be kinda weird to have a ship full of female riggers and a female captain and stuff without drastically altering history.
> 
> Urgh, I'm sorry if some things pertaining to the events of the book are inaccurate, because for some horrible reason, I don't even own the books.
> 
> Yadda yadda yadda, Dylan is actually a dude, Alek is actually Aleksandra, daughter of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, she's on the run and in disguise because people want to kill her, Dylan's dad is still dead, his mother is disappointed in him because she wanted him to be smart and stuff and go to university or whatever and instead he joined the Air Force like his brother, he's got some tragic backstory, blah blah blah. The whole deal.
> 
> This was badly thought out.


	3. Day 3 - Fairy Tales

"Okay, you can be the princess and I can be the knight."

"What? I don't want to be a princess!"

"Well, you're the girl. You have to be. And I'm the boy so I get to be the knight."

"Says who?"

"Well, that's what it's always like in fairy tales. It's the rules."

"But fairy tales aren't true, you ninny. They're just stories."

"But—

"And so that means that the rules aren't true, too. So  _you_  can be the princess and I can be the dragon!"

"But I can't be the princess! I'm a boy!"

"…Fine. You be the knight, and I'll be the dragon. Deal?"

"Deal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actually a while ago I started writing a commoner AU (that was totally abandoned) where Deryn and Alek grow up together as best friends and when I saw the prompt I thought, 'Hey, what about little Alek and Deryn fighting over who has to be the princess when they're playing?' And then of course Deryn doesn't want to be the helpless princess, so she ends up being the dragon. Typical Deryn.


	4. Day 5 - Good Morning

"Good morning, your princeliness!"

Alek groaned and slowly blinked open his eyes. He unstuck his face from the pillow and squinted blearily at the clock on his nightstand, trying to make sense of the fuzzy figures—without much success.

"What time is it?" he asked Deryn tiredly, his tongue heavy and sticky in his mouth.

"Almost noon," she answered brightly, entirely too awake for the current situation. Alek's head pounded in time with her words. "I brought you breakfast," she added. He could hear the smirk in her voice.

He tried to sit up, and his stomach lurched in protest. He gave up and flopped back into the pillows, immediately regretting the sudden movement when his skull throbbed painfully in response. "God's wounds, I feel awful. I don't think I could eat anything."

She guffawed loudly, and he winced. "Aye, that's what you get when you challenge a Scot to a drinking contest!" And then she said, more gently, "But don't worry, this isn't food. Just some tea."

Alek tried to stifle another groan and threw his arm across his eyes to block the light. "Deryn," he rasped, "I can't even sit up without feeling the urge to vomit. Even tea sounds unappetizing at the moment."

Deryn amusedly mumbled something in response that he didn't quite feel the urge to decipher. " _Was?_ " he asked halfheartedly instead.

"Oh, nothing. I was just saying how this would make you feel better."

Alek lifted his arm to squint at her, not believing her words for a second. He was almost certain that she had been making a dig at his ability to hold his liquor, but he was too nauseous to call her out on it. He lowered his arm back onto his eyes.

"Ugh, just—leave it on the nightstand. I'll drink it later."

He heard the sound of a cup being placed on wood and, satisfied, turned away to try and get some more rest and hopefully quell the pounding in his brain.

He didn't expect to feel the bed dip behind him, however, and have her wrap her arms around him, her breath rustling the hair at the back of his neck.

"It can't be that bad," she murmured, her voice ghosting across his skin. Normally, he would shiver at the sensation, goosebumps rising along his flesh, but Alek was too hungover to have any sort of reaction.

"It is," he replied groggily. He exhaled slowly, trying to clear his head for even a second. "I'm never drinking again."

Her laugh rumbled through him, and he felt her smile against his neck as she quipped, "We'll see about that, Clanker."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because of course Alek would question Deryn's ability to hold her liquor and then challenge her to a drinking contest, which he would then lose. Very badly.
> 
> Yup, he's totally, absolutely trashed after a couple drinks and Deryn is just sitting there swigging at whatever the hell she has in her hand asking, "Something wrong, your Highness?" and grinning while he tries not to fall over and slurs his incomprehensible mix of German and English and whatever other f-ing languages he can speak. And then the next day he has a horrible hangover and Deryn is completely fine and she won't stop picking on him and laughing at him.
> 
> And that's the last of my written entries. Dalek Week this year was a blast, I hope everyone else thought so too! Also, thanks to all the people who commented on/favourited my entries on DeviantArt, it means a lot. :)


End file.
